


(There's No Place Like) Chicago For The Holidays

by StepfordSnarker



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: And Watching Gremlins, ByelerHolidayBash, Canon-typical swearing, Christmas, Found Family (but like he literally found A Family), Holidays, I realize the summary makes it sound like this is in 2nd person but it's in 3rd person i promise, Listening to Karen Carpenter, M/M, One Shot, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, baking cookies, what could be better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:13:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28279701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StepfordSnarker/pseuds/StepfordSnarker
Summary: Late addition to the 2020 #ByelerHolidayBash Day 7! Prompt: "There's no place like home for the holidays."It sucks to have a fight with your dad over politics when it's almost Christmas, and it sucks even more when your name is Mike Wheeler, you're only 16, and you're a not-as-straight-as-originally-planned kid living in Reagan's America. But you have one secret weapon: a best friend (who you might be in love with) and his family (who loves you).
Relationships: Will Byers/Mike Wheeler
Comments: 8
Kudos: 49





	(There's No Place Like) Chicago For The Holidays

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this to prove that I can do fluff, but clearly that didn't go as planned because we still have an angsty set-up. Yes, I am totally fine.
> 
> CW: fighting with family, brief discussion of the AIDS crisis, period-typical homophobia and sexism, canon-typical swearing (I managed to not drop any F-bombs!!! Amazing)

**_Christmas morning, ‘87_ **

_ Oh, there's no place like home for the holidays. _

Karen Carpenter’s voice comes crooning through Joyce’s kitchen radio, which is canary-yellow and has a coffee mug precariously perched on top. Mike lifts his hand to push it back from the edge—wouldn’t want it to spill over Will’s most recent artwork, which is half-complete and splayed out across the table, left vulnerable to this dangerous, dangerous kitchen.

Christmas in Chicago is so different from Christmas in Hawkins. There’s no noise on Christmas morning in a small town unless you’re near enough to the church to overhear the chorus doing an early service, but the Byers’ apartment has thin walls, and their neighbors are making their presence known. On one side, a couple and their young children are opening gifts. On the other, someone sounds like they’re baking  _ (aggressively? _ —Pots and pans clang together, the sink turns on and off in irregular intervals. At one point, someone had shouted “Shit!” and Mike had stifled a laugh). It’s not exactly the peace and quiet that the Wheeler house has become accustomed to over the years once Nancy, Mike, and Holly were all too old for running through hallways and fighting over presents. But with a hot cup of spiced apple cider between his cold hands, Mike considers that this may be better. This feeling of being surrounded, sound and  _ life _ on all sides, is the greatest comfort. Not to mention that Will, El, Joyce, and Jonathan are all here with him.

Well. Jonathan and Will are at the store right now because they had to pick up extra ingredients for the cookies, and El is talking to Max on the phone in her room, but still. This is nice.

Joyce recaps her pen and puts it down, looking out the frost-covered window. She and Mike have been sitting together for half an hour, and she’s been working on a crossword puzzle. According to Will, it’s the newest addition to her Mom Needs To Unwind arsenal, but she gets frustrated easily. From time to time, she grumbles, “Well who knows anything about that?” If it’s a science question, or something vaguely nerdy, she’ll read the prompt to Mike. Five out of six times he’s known the answer.

His own mom doesn’t read the paper unless it’s Sunday. In the morning, she flips through glossy magazines or catches up on soap opera reruns. It’s not a bad thing, but sitting here with Joyce… it’s just different.

She reaches out, without looking up from her work, to gently nudge Mike’s forearm. “What’s the building block of rih-boh— ray-boh—” She squints at the letters. “Rye-boh—”

“Ribonucleic acids? Nucleotides.”

Joyce smiles at him. “Can you please spell that for me, Einstein?”

Mike grins. “Sure.” 

If his dad could be here right now, he would probably make a jab at Mike: “ _ What’s the use of knowing all that junk anyway?” _

* * *

_ For no matter how far away you roam—  _

El has never seen  _ Gremlins _ before. Luckily, there’s a video store right down the block from the apartment, and the sidewalks have been covered in street salt, so they’re walkable. Mike and El go together through the cold wind and the cigarette smoke, though snow is still falling. Has the snow even stopped since Mike arrived?

He looks at El with her hair—now past her shoulders, trimmed once or twice since last year—pulled back into a ponytail. The cold has turned her cheeks pink, like a sunburn. He likes that he can appreciate her with a kind of aesthetic distance now that they’re broken up. Now that they’re friends. Mike doesn’t care what he looks like, or if he’s speaking and listening at the right ratio. All the politics of their perfect, mythic romance are gone, and he can just enjoy himself around her. Right now, she’s talking about school.

“They won’t let special-ed kids try out for the Spring musical.”

“What?” Mike says. 

“I know! They said something about… us needing more time to do school work. But there’s not a tutoring program or anything.” El shakes her head.

“That’s so dumb!”

“I know,” El says. “So during lunch, I locked the director’s keys in his car.”

Mike gasps, then laughs. “Holy shit! And no one saw you?”

They reach the video store and turn inside. 

“No,” El says. “I did it with my powers. Through the window so that I didn’t have to be near.”

Mike grins. Still as awesome as ever. He leads El through the aisles of the store, seeking out the  _ Gremlins _ tape. 

“I told Will to try out for the musical, but he said he didn’t want to be on stage in front of all those people,” El says. “And that he didn’t want to be in it if I wasn’t in it too. So we’re just going to put on our own play.”

“That’s really cool,” Mike replies. “Are you gonna write one together?”

El nods. She reaches across him to pick up the  _ Gremlins _ tape that he’d somehow skipped over. 

“Oh, thanks. Well, I bet you’ll do great, and I hope I can come watch.”

“Yes!” El chirps. “We won’t do it unless you’re there to see.”

Mike pictures Will and El laughing, getting into stupid, slapdash costumes together, and he wishes that he could live here always. There must be so many moments with the two of them that he’s missed.

But he’s here now. That’s what counts.

After renting the tape, Mike and El head back out into the cold. Mike almost slips on some ice, but El—with her supernatural reflexes—catches him by the arm and steadies him. She laughs at him the whole way back.

* * *

_ If you want to be happy in a million ways—  _

Will and Jonathan have returned from the store and are unpacking paper bags by the time Mike and El walk through the door. The cookies are top priority, so they’ll have to wait to put on  _ Gremlins  _ until later _. _

The family settles into the cookie-making business quick and natural, with duties divided and stations marked. Joyce is on clean-up because there are still dishes out from last night’s grand dinner, a Chinese take-out feast (the turkey was burned). El and Will (obviously) are on decorations, which means that they’re currently mixing up some royal icing in separate bowls depending on the color. Jonathan, who has a secret special talent for baking, is on—you guessed it—baking duty. And Mike is his personal assistant. 

The way that Jonathan requests certain ingredients (pre-measured, thanks Mike) and utensils (“wait, that’s not the right spatula.”) reminds Mike of a very meek, very kind, yet world-famous doctor requesting his scalpel from the nearby nurse. It’s truly impressive to watch.

“Hey Mike,” Jonathan says. “Can you watch the mixer for a second? I don’t want to overbeat the dough.”

Loyally, Mike stands beside the mixer and watches for overbeating. Except he doesn’t know how ‘overbeating’ would actually look. He’s more like if someone in a sexy nurse costume had been mistaken for the real thing and forced onto the frontlines. But Jonathan doesn’t need to know that.

When the doctor returns, Mike smiles sheepishly towards him. “Good enough?” he asks.

“Yeah, perfect,” Jonathan answers. He turns off the mixer and scrapes down the sides of the bowl. The sugar-white dough collects into a ball—perfect texture for rolling out and shaping. Maybe Mike isn’t so bad at this after all.

Jonathan catches Mike's eye and raises his brows in question. "Can I talk to you for a minute?" His voice is so low that, when Mike shoots a quick glance out of the kitchen's doorway, the rest of the apartment is totally undisturbed. Will and El crack jokes together, spill globs of icing all over their arms and onto the table. Joyce collapses backwards on the couch to answer a phone call, probably from extended family. But nobody looks at them. 

“What?” Mike asks.

Jonathan lays a hand on his shoulder. The gesture is big-brotherly, which comes as a surprise. Mike’s never had a big brother before. “Before I say this,” Jonathan starts, “don’t blame Nancy. She just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Okay?”  _ But—Oh god. She couldn’t have told him about… Oh god.  _

“You always have a safe place here,” Jonathan says. “My mom, El, Will. We’re all here for you. And, you know, we haven’t always been the closest, but you’re my little brother’s best friend, and you never gave up on him. You helped bring him back from the Upside Down, and you helped save him from the Mind Flayer.”

Mike swallows. He looks for something, anything, to do with his hands. So he takes the ball of dough out of the mixer bowl and pulls out the cutting board. He’s forgotten to put down something to keep it from sticking, so Jonathan puts his hand out to stop him from dropping the dough. Together, they work on covering the board with a thin blanket of snowy flour.

“You’re a great kid, you know that?” Jonathan says. “And no matter what your parents say, that doesn’t change anything.”

There are tears welling up behind Mike’s eyes. He clenches his jaw to stop them from spilling over.

“Nancy loves you no matter what. And you can always come talk to me.” Jonathan finishes rolling out the dough. He reaches over to grab the cookie cutters (all kinds of shapes: trees, gingerbread men, stars), then hands them to Mike. A stray tear makes it out and rolls down Mike’s cheek. “About anything.” Jonathan gives him a soft, though awkward, smile. 

“Thanks,” Mike sniffs. He wipes his face with the long sleeve of his shirt. Compulsively, he glances over at the decorating station. Will, who’s been waiting ever-so-patiently for cookies to ice, is gazing right at him. 

Will is oblivious at first, but he jolts upright when he notices that he’s been caught. Mike’s heart melts in his chest.

* * *

_ For the holidays, you can't beat home sweet home. _

By the time they actually get around to starting  _ Gremlins, _ it's already sunset. The dark night fully settles in at some point during the scene with Phoebe Cates in the bar with the nasty little gremlins. And El, who the movie was  _ for, _ has already dozed off against Joyce’s shoulder. 

Mike hasn’t paid attention to most of the movie because he’s seen it before. Oh, and also because Will’s shoulder is firmly pressed against his. The couch is more of a three-person-seater, but they’ve squeezed in four. (Jonathan is on the floor in front of Joyce’s legs, reading a brick-like book instead of watching Joe Dante’s magnum opus). 

Mike and Will are sharing a blanket as well, but Mike’s plenty warm enough already. There is a vast difference, he thinks, between where he is right now, and where he was around this time just two days ago:

At the dining table in the Wheelers’ home, everyone is gathered to eat. The meal is a leading-up-to-Christmas meal, so it’s simple. Spaghetti with pre-packaged meatballs. Karen has her glass of red wine (a permanent staple, and a habit that Nancy has picked up). Ted has his distant stare. Mike can’t recall the last time that Ted was really there with them at the table.

“How was your day, sweetie?” Karen asks. Nancy, who’s back from the NYU school of American Journalism on winter break, has already recapped her day, which was just researching graduate programs. So it’s Mike’s turn.

“Good,” Mike answers. Today was boring. “I have an essay for US Government to do over break.”

“Oh, well, that’s unfortunate,” Karen says. “How’s it going so far?”

“It’s pretty easy. I’m just writing about Reagan.” He scoops some pasta into his mouth. “And my teacher spent a whole period railing against Reaganomics last week.”

“Hmph.”  _ That’s _ what gets Ted back in the room. “He sounds like a fruit.”

“She’s cool, actually,” Mike says. He looks down at his plate, and won’t look back up. “She’s my favorite teacher.”

Ted clears his throat. “Well, son, our personal politics are no secret. I can give your paper the once-over before you hand it in. You’ll stick it to her.” Across from Mike, Nancy wears a deep frown.

“Actually—” Mike starts.

“And if that girl fails you for it, we’ll go to the principal,” Ted reassures.

“Dad,” Nancy says. “She’s not a girl. Mrs. Anders is in her 30s.” But he ignores her.

“I’m writing about how Reagan’s ignoring the AIDS crisis,” Mike says. His hand hurts from clenching his fork. How had he not noticed his knuckles turning white? Karen gasps.

“Where did you hear about that, Mike?” Karen asks. “That’s not appropriate discussion for school. Did Mrs. Anders say something?”

“If they can’t talk about it at school, where are they supposed to talk about it?” Nancy asks. “Mike  _ clearly _ can’t bring it up here.” She’s in her warrior-mode. Mike appreciates it, but now he just feels sick to his stomach. His brave streak has abandoned him.

“Michael clearly feels a little  _ too _ comfortable bringing it up here,” Ted says. He glares at Mike over the top of the table’s centerpiece: a pot of badly-matched, multicolored flowers that Holly had made in her 2nd grade art class. His eyes hold a kind of violence—his worst suspicions about Mike finally confirmed. 

“Oh, for goodness sake, Ted,” Karen says, grabbing his elbow. “Mike doesn’t mean it. He’s just a kid. All he knows is what people tell him.”

“Mom!” Nancy shouts. 

_ “No, _ Nancy—” Mike intervenes. Everyone at the table is staring at him. Holly looks totally perplexed. There’s a long, uncomfortable silence stretching, spreading between them all. A growing shadow that had been dormant, finally awoken. He blinks, hard. 

Caustic anger fills up his chest, his arms, his skull. His body’s on high alert, like he might need to run at any second. It’s not a natural feeling. Not something you should feel at home with your family on the holidays. It’s not fair.

“I know what I’m talking about, Mom,” Mike says, slowly. She’s always deescalating, but some things are worth leaning into. “For example, I know that Reagan doesn’t care if gay people are dying. And I know that Dad doesn’t care either.” He meets Ted’s glare, but can’t keep angry tears from burning in his eyes. 

“That’s enough,” Ted says. “I don’t know what got into you. I don’t know what made you this way, but until you can buck up and stop being such a pansy, you aren’t my son."

Mike stands up so quickly that he knocks the silverware off his placemat. He slams his hands down on the wood of the table because there’s so much adrenaline coursing through him, but he has nothing else to say. He walks straight out of the dining room and into the front hall. Then he slams the front door behind him. It’s cold outside. The street is icy.

Nancy’s yelling is muffled from outside the house. Then Karen’s voice joins in. It’s all too much. Stomping down the street in a shirt that’s too thin for December in Hawkins, Mike devises a plan—Lucas’s house first, since it’s so close. Then Chicago. He needs to be in Chicago. 

“Mike?” A small voice prods, close to his ear. It’s Will, of course. Mike turns his face towards the sound, and the wind is knocked out of him. 

Light from the TV illuminates the side of Will’s cheek and bounces off of his hazel irises. He’s really beautiful right now. “I’m getting up,” Will continues. 

_ No, _ Mike thinks, _ don’t do that.  _

“Do you want anything? Cookie? More cider?” 

Mike’s gaze accidentally flicks down to Will’s lips while he’s speaking, and he feels his cheeks warm up. “C-Cider,” he answers. The edge of Will’s lip curls up, like he’s suppressing a smile, which only makes Mike’s face feel hotter.

“One cider coming up.” Will stands up from the couch, and the movement invites cold nothing where his body used to be. Immediately, Mike feels the acuteness of his absence. Watches Will disappear into the kitchen.

El, now awake— _ when did she wake up? _ —has caught him watching. She nudges him in the thigh with her socked foot and grins smugly. Too embarrassed to respond, Mike stands up, retreats into the kitchen.

Will stands at the counter with a sugar cookie (iced to look like a snowman—top hat, carrot nose, the whole shebang) in his mouth and two mugs of cider in his hands. He does a bit of handy gymnastics to hold the mugs and the cookie at once.

_ “Someone’s _ impatient,” Will teases. “I was just about to bring it to you." He passes a mug to Mike, who takes it in his hands and relishes the warmth, just like before. 

“No,” Mike says. “No, I just…” He pauses, looks at Will in his cozy knitted sweater. Unlike El, Will’s cheeks have actually stayed pink since coming back inside, like the cold isn't actually a factor.  _ Gremlins _ is playing off in the other room, and the kitchen smells like burnt sugar. 

For once, Mike is completely content. 

Enough to tell the truth. 

“I guess I just couldn’t stay away from you for long.”

Will’s eyes light up. He smiles cautiously and laughs like Mike just told a joke. When Will averts his eyes, his bashfulness just makes Mike want more. 

He’s not likely to give a verbal response. And hey, they're here together. There's no rush. Mike turns around, ready to return to the living room, but Will reaches out and catches his wrist.

"Wait," Will says. "Do you wanna hang out in here for a little while?"

Mike turns back around to face him and nods wordlessly. Will leans back against the counter, taking a sip from his mug, and Mike follows his lead. Just like on the couch, their shoulders are pressed together. But this time it's not about space. They're quiet for a moment while Mike soaks in the feeling of just being  _ here _ . Being together.

"Want a bite?" Will asks, holding up the snowman cookie, which is already missing a chunk. Mike smirks, takes it from him, and eats a bit. They haven't done this since they were very little, so something has definitely shifted between them. 

"Thanks."

"How are you doing?" Will asks. "Like, are you feeling alright?"

Mike takes another bite, and is forced to answer with a full mouth. "Did Jonathan say something to you?"

Will shakes his head. "You just seemed… distracted. During the movie." He takes the cookie back and gives Mike a  _ look _ because Mike has almost totally demolished it. Mike winks in response. This feels kind of like flirting. 

_ Oh my god, are we flirting? _

"Also—" Will finishes the cookie off and brushes his hands for crumbs. "It's not exactly normal to arrive unannounced at your friend's doorstep on the day before Christmas if everything is okay."

"I was afraid your mom would've said no if I'd asked."

"She wouldn't do that."

"No," Mike concedes. "But she'd probably ask more questions."

It sounds like  _ Gremlins _ has ended in the other room, and they hear the sound of the TV switching off. They expect that someone else might come into the kitchen to check on them, so they stop talking. Mike looks into his apple cider. He's paying far too much attention to the steady rise and fall of Will's chest. Nobody comes to interrupt them. And maybe that's intentional.

"You didn't answer my question," Will points out.

"Okay," Mike says. He kicks the ball of his foot against the kitchen tile a few times, then sighs. "I got in a fight with my dad."

"Oh no. I'm sorry."

"It was huge. Like a blow-out fight, and Nancy kept trying to help, and my mom kept trying to stop it. But honestly, it's been such a long time coming." He chews his lip.

"I'm really sorry," Will says again. "You don't deserve that."

They hear Jonathan's bedroom door close, shortly followed by Joyce's, and then the door to El and Will's shared room.

"I'm glad that you came here," Will says. "I'm here for you. We're all here for you."

"I know," Mike says. He offers a sad smile. "Jonathan gave me the run-down earlier."

Mike returns his mug to the counter and then lets his hand fall down to his side, where it momentarily meets Will's. At first, the contact is surprising, but  _ what the hell _ , he's in so deep already.

Mike nudges Will's pinky with his own. Their hands have become so unfamiliar over the years, since touching each other has become so conspicuous, so loud. When they touch, he mourns the years lost. Years they could have been touching. Will makes a little sound of shock, but then slowly presses his palm into Mike's and intertwines their fingers together. Mike squeezes his hand back and holds on to let Will know just what this all means. So there can be no mistake. 

Will leans his head against Mike's shoulder—the weight of love. They've never done  _ that _ before. 

All of Mike's problems, for now, are on pause. One day he'll need to go back to Hawkins and face his dad. One day—maybe even soon. But Mike knows he can come back to Chicago. Back to the Byers.

He knows that he can always come home.


End file.
